


I'm Ready to Suffer, and I'm Ready to Hope

by OomnyDevotchka



Series: Shake it Out [1]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: F/M, Gen, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-25
Updated: 2012-12-25
Packaged: 2017-11-22 09:56:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 20,195
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/608549
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OomnyDevotchka/pseuds/OomnyDevotchka
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After Stiles is kidnapped by Gerard Argent, a frantic Scott spills the truth to his father. They team up with Isaac, Derek, and Peter to try to find him (as well as Boyd and Erica), But Argent, with the help of Allison, is hiding his captives well, hoping to lure Derek into a trap. Meanwhile, Melissa McCall and Lydia take Jackson to Dr. Deaton’s, where a fight for his life commences. S2 finale AU.</p>
            </blockquote>





	I'm Ready to Suffer, and I'm Ready to Hope

**Author's Note:**

> Giant thank you to [Kodamasama](http://kodamasama.livejournal.com/) for the beta, and to [casket-faction](http://casket-faction.livejournal.com/) for the gorgeous art and fanmix. A download link to the mix, which I highly recommend, can be found [here](http://www.mediafire.com/?2je559g1jx7qq).

           

            As soon as he realizes Stiles is missing, Scott starts moving.

            He knows he should probably be a little more concerned about Jackson – for all that there’s no love lost between them, he doesn’t actually want him to _die_.

            But Stiles is Scott’s best friend, and if he has a choice between helping Jackson or helping Stiles? Well, let’s just say it isn’t a difficult decision.

            Scott’s enhanced hearing is both a blessing and a curse at the best of times, but it’s landing pretty firmly in the curse category right now. As he dashes towards the locker room, he can still hear his mother’s voice, panic barely suppressed with a false calm, taking control of the situation, trying desperately to save Jackson’s life. He can still hear Lydia’s sobs, and he can’t help but feel sorry for her. She’s somehow managed to get completely screwed over by the werewolf thing, and she doesn’t even have the advantage of knowing what’s going on.

            The worst sound, though, the one that nearly drowns out all the others, is the sound of the Sheriff’s anguished voice, as he searches for the son he won’t find.

            Scott can remember being ten years old and hearing that Stiles’s mother, who sang sweetly along to the radio and always gave him an extra cookie after an asthma attack, was gone. He remembers seeing Stiles’s father for the first time at the funeral, how the grief seemed to have aged him overnight.

            Somewhere, deep down in his bones, Scott knows that it will kill the Sheriff if anything happens to Stiles.

            Somehow, when Scott reaches the locker room, Isaac’s already there. He’s abandoned his sweaty pads already, and the sight of him there, waiting for Scott to tell him what to do, causes a strange kind of warmth to rise up in Scott’s stomach. He’s never really had any friends besides Stiles (and Allison, he supposes, although _friend_ isn’t exactly the word he’d use to describe her), so he chalks it up to surprise and gratefulness that Isaac is so willing to help him.

            Isaac opens the door, and the two of them slip inside the locker room. Scott’s been inside this room alone too many times to count over the past few months, but it never seems to get any less eerie. Something about the lingering smell, piss and unwashed teenage boy, combined with the silhouettes of everyone’s abandoned supplies.

            Scott makes a beeline straight to Stiles’s locker, Isaac following without comment. He’s got this vague, half-formed idea that he can use Stiles’s scent for tracking, like he’s a bloodhound or something. He knows it’s not a great plan, but since the person who usually comes up with _those_ is currently MIA, it’ll have to do.

            Stiles has given Scott the combination to his locker a million times, but Scott’s memory for details like that is shit, and Scott has werewolf powers now, so he doesn’t even bother trying to remember. Instead, he snaps the locker door off at the hinges, barely expending any energy to do so.

            The sound of a pistol cocking is nearly deafening in the silent room.

            Scott whirls around, preparing to see Gerard or Allison’s father, and mentally calling Derek every bad name he can think of for not bothering to train him to use his super hearing _properly_.

            Instead, Scott finds himself face-to-face with Sheriff Stilinski.

            It’s almost scarier, somehow – Scott’s known Sheriff Stilinski all his life, and he’d never thought he would be in this position, looking down the barrel of a gun pointed at him by his best friend’s father.

            It’s not like the gun can actually _kill_ Scott, of course, but he can’t help the ingrained panic from kicking in, the instinct that tells him that he’s in danger.

            Also, getting shot hurts like a _bitch_ , and Scott would really rather not experience it again.

            Out of the corner of his eye, Scott can see Isaac’s claws unsheathe. He’s not moving, though, and Scott realizes with a jolt that Isaac’s deferring responsibility to _him_ , won’t attack unless Scott says so.

            “Scott, what the hell is going on?” Sheriff Stilinski asks, eyes narrow.

            Scott feels pretty damn trapped right now. He could come up with another lie, but his mind is stubbornly blank. Besides, after the thing with Matt in the station, Scott will be surprised if the Sheriff buys another one of his stories.

            The thing that really convinces Scott that he needs to get the Sheriff in on this, though, is the look in his eyes. Sure, there’s confusion, suspicion, and a steely determination there, but underneath it all, there’s sheer panic.

            Scott sighs and steps forward, beginning to root around in Stiles’s locker. The Sheriff lowers his gun, as Scott suspected he might, but he’s still got his gaze trained on Scott, ready to bring it back up at a moment’s notice.

            Scott finds what he’s looking for, the shirt that Stiles had worn to school that day, and he gives it a deep sniff, not caring what this’ll look like to the Sheriff. He pulls his head out of the locker and passes the shirt wordlessly to Isaac, who repeats the gesture.

            Scott turns back to the Sheriff, who’s looking at him like he’s lost his mind. “I’ll tell you everything,” Scott says, “if you can give us a ride.”

            Isaac makes a questioning noise, and the Sheriff’s mouth turns down at the corners. Scott holds firm, though, looking into the Sheriff’s eyes to show how serious he is.

            The Sheriff nods, clearly willing to go along with Scott’s craziness if it means he’ll get some answers. “The car’s out front,” he says, and exits the locker room, putting his gun back in his belt.

            Scott makes to follow him, but is held back by Isaac’s hand on his arm. “You’re going to tell him the truth?” he asks. He looks scared, and Scott wonders how deeply Derek must have drilled it into him, this need for secrecy. It’s a shame, really: Isaac hasn’t got anyone outside the pack to depend on, and he doesn’t seem to realize that Derek and the others don’t have a damn clue what they’re doing.

            Scott gives Isaac what he hopes is a reassuring smile. It probably comes out as a grimace, though, what with how tightly he’s wound right now. “It’ll be fine,” he says. “The Sheriff’s a good guy, he’ll help us.”

            Isaac still looks doubtful, but he trails along behind when Scott makes his way towards the door.

***

            Melissa has seen her fair share of death over the years, but she can’t say that any case has ever affected her like this.

            Jackson Whittemore has, indirectly, been a figure in her life for a long time. She can still remember a six-year-old Scott, coming home from his first day of school and complaining about the boy that had pushed him into the dirt at recess, and she can still remember a sixteen-year-old Scott, just a few months ago, complaining about the lacrosse captain.

            Now, with Jackson lying in the back of the ambulance, hanging onto life by a thread, Melissa’s ashamed to admit she’s always disliked him. How could she not, really, with the stories Scott’s told her over the years? She hadn’t ever really considered what Jackson must have been going through, why he had acted the way he did, despite knowing about his family situation.

            Because in the end, no matter what had happened between Jackson and Scott, no one deserves to die like this.

            Melissa sighs and leans back slightly against the passenger seat of the ambulance. Out of the corner of her eye, she can see the pinched look on the driver’s face. She rolls her head away to stare out the window instead, not wanting to deal with the woman’s attitude. So Melissa may have forced herself into the ambulance. She’s a _nurse_ for Chrissakes, it’s not like she’s going to try to steal the painkillers or anything.

            Melissa knows that these thoughts she’s having, the bitter ones about the driver, the regretful ones about her past feelings toward Jackson, are all distractions. She doesn’t want to think about _how_ Jackson got injured.

            Doesn’t want to think about how Jackson’s wounds remind her of the claws she’d seen erupt from the tips of her son’s fingers, that night at the Sheriff’s station.

            It’s not that she thinks _Scott_ did this to Jackson, or anything – Melissa knows her son, and, furry or not, he’s not capable of this kind of cruelty – but she still doesn’t really want to accept the fact that a creature like Scott had done this.

            Hell, she still doesn’t really want to accept the fact that creatures like Scott _exist_.

            Melissa shakes her head, as though doing that will drive these thoughts away. She refocuses on the scenery outside the window, noting with slight surprise that the ambulance driver has decided to take an alternate route to the hospital, driving on the back roads instead of through the town proper. She supposes it’s a good idea, though – the town’s bound to be clogged up with police cars and curious civilians, flocking to the scene of the latest disaster. The route they’re taking, though it’s longer in distance, will probably end up being quicker.

            Just as Melissa’s thinking this, the ambulance begins to slow down. Frowning, Melissa turns to look out the windshield. Across the road in front of them, a sleek, black Camaro is parked, taking up both lanes of the road.

            Next to Melissa, the driver swears loudly. “The _fuck_ do these assholes think they’re doing?”

            She lays on the horn, expecting the driver of the Camaro to notice them and move, but Melissa has a sick feeling in the pit of her stomach. It can’t be coincidence – Jackson’s savaged by some kind of evil werewolf monster, and the ambulance is intercepted on the way to the hospital?

            The ambulance is almost to the Camaro now, and the driver is forced to stop completely to avoid plowing into it. She throws the ambulance into park, still muttering obscenities, and wrenches the door open.

            “Whoa,” Melissa says, holding up her hands as though that will cause the woman to halt. “I’m not sure it’s a good idea to go out there.”

            The driver gives Melissa an incredulous look, but doesn’t respond, choosing instead to leave the ambulance and begin striding towards the Camaro, chest puffed up with righteous indignation.

            Melissa watches, almost detached, as a dark figure comes out from behind the Camaro, making a beeline straight for the driver. She doesn’t know what to do – should she get out of the car and run? The driver’s left the keys in the ignition – maybe she should drive away?

            Although, this doesn’t really seem to be going the way Melissa had expected. The dark figure slinks up to the driver, sure, but it doesn’t seem to be attacking. Instead, it’s almost as though the figure is speaking to the driver. Maybe there’s something wrong with the road ahead, and the figure is merely being trying to warn them?

            As she continues to watch, Melissa sees another figure come out from behind the Camaro and begin loping towards the ambulance on all fours, moving much faster than the first had. She makes to switch seats as quickly as possible, but doesn’t make it before the figure reaches the window.

            She’s expecting a jolt, or a crash, or _something_ when the creature reaches her, but none comes. She opens her eyes, not really able to remember when she’d closed them, and finds herself face to face with Derek Hale.

            He looks completely human, obviously having changed from his four legged form while she was distracted, and his intense eyes are boring into hers.   

            Melissa feels a bit conflicted. Sure, Derek Hale’s been a suspect in multiple murders over the last few months, and he seems to have a strange penchant for glaring and hanging around teenagers, but he had helped Scott at the Sheriff’s station.

            And right now, with everything Melissa’s ever known being turned on its head, her son is the only person she can trust. If he can work with Derek, she can as well.

            She meets his eyes and nods, just as she hears the back doors of the ambulance opening. Clearly, the paramedic has gotten tired of waiting. Derek obviously hears it as well, and he disappears around the back of the vehicle in seconds.

            “Don’t hurt him!” Melissa calls. She’s starting to have a hunch about what’s going on here and, if she’s right, they’re going to need the driver and the paramedic out of the way. Still, she’d rather not resort to violence.

            Derek comes back around the side of the ambulance, holding fast onto the paramedic’s arm. He’s a weedy little man, the paramedic, and he looks like he’s about to shit himself from fear. Melissa supposes that Derek’s muscles would have that effect on her, too, if he was that close.

            And wow, it is super inappropriate to think about Derek like that.

            Anyway, Derek’s giving her this incredulous look, like it’s totally irrational for her to think that a werewolf might hurt someone.

            Melissa decides right then and there that she’s not going to be a passive participant in this little drama anymore. She gets out of the ambulance and moves to stand next to Derek, grateful that it’s late spring and the night is warm. “What’s going on?” she asks. “We need to get Jackson to the hospital, you know.”

            “The hospital won’t be able to help him.” It seems as though Derek’s not a man of many words, because he doesn’t offer any explanation beyond that. The quaking paramedic opens his mouth and gets out “Nurse McCall -” before Derek apparently decides that he doesn’t want to deal with the man anymore. With a sound that’s almost like a growl, Derek yanks on the man’s arm and begins walking back towards the Camaro, where, Melissa realizes with a jolt, she can no longer see the driver. The paramedic is full on gibbering now, his high-pitched voice an assault on Melissa’s ears even as it gets quieter and further away.

            Derek disappears behind the car, and Melissa can feel her apprehension rising. What if she was wrong about him? God knows Scott isn’t always the best judge of character. What if she’s just inadvertently caused these peoples’ deaths, by not driving away when she had the chance?

            Before Melissa can work herself up into a proper state, Derek and the other figure begin to come back towards her, now completely free of the ambulance workers. As they get closer, Melissa can start to make out some of the anonymous man’s features, but it’s not until they’re about ten feet away that she actually recognizes him.

            “Peter?!” she says, flashing back to the one date she’d had with the man months ago.

            Peter steps forward, genial smile firmly in place. “Melissa. Looking ravishing as ever, I see.” He goes to take her hand, probably to kiss it like she’s some misguided Jane Austen heroine, but she yanks it away before it can make contact.

            “Guess I should apologize to Stiles for freaking out over the car incident,” she says, narrowing her eyes.

            “That was…a bit of a misunderstanding,” says Peter. “I’m afraid I wasn’t in my right mind when I saw you last.”

            Derek gives a loud snort, crossing his arms over his chest in a manner than Melissa has seen countless times from Scott. It snaps her out of her disbelieving reverie, and she’s all business once more. “OK, I’m gonna need some damn answers,” she says, looking between Derek and Peter. “Why aren’t we taking this boy to the hospital, exactly?”

            “He’s not human,” says Derek.

            Melissa waits a few seconds for him to expand on that thought. Peter seems to be used to the difficulty of talking to Derek, because he rolls his eyes and picks up where Derek left off. “Jackson’s not a werewolf, exactly,” he says. “He’s a different sort of creature, Scott may have mentioned it to you. A Kanima?”

            Melissa swallows harshly. “Kanima?” The word comes out weak. She remembers how it had felt, the creature’s cold, scaly tail tight around her throat, cutting off her air supply. Scott begging the deranged old man to let her go. “That thing’s _Jackson_?”

            “Ah, so you’ve met it!” Peter sounds perversely delighted.

            “You could say that,” Melissa replies. It seems like the more surprising things she finds out, the better she takes it, because she’s already moving on from the revelation, planning ahead. “But if he’s the…whatever that thing is called, why’d the old man have him attack _himself_?”

            “A distraction,” says Derek. It’s hard to tell, but it seems like his expression gets even stormier as he says it.

            “Distraction?” Melissa’s confused for the briefest second, and then “Stiles?”

            Derek gives a nod, nostrils flaring, and Peter explains “Stiles is a good bargaining chip. Gerard – that’s the old man, by the way, Gerard Argent – knows that Scott will do anything for Stiles, and the kid’s completely human, so he’s a lot easier to subdue.”

            It makes sense, in a fucked up kind of way. The old man – Gerard – had already gone after Melissa herself, after all. “Ok, this is all well and good, but what are we supposed to do? Why are we just standing here chewing the fat when Stiles is missing and Jackson’s dying?”

            “He’s not _dying_ ,” Peter scoffs. “A few little stab wounds won’t stop him.”

            “But we should get going,” Derek adds, glaring at Peter. “We may know a way to save Jackson, get him out from under Gerard’s control.”

            “Oh good, the keys are still in the ignition!” Peter calls.

            Melissa walks over to where Peter’s trying to get into the driver’s seat and shoves him away. “Hell no, I’m driving,” She climbs in and waits for Derek and Peter to pile into the passenger side, squeezing together due to the lack of space. “Where to?”

            As Melissa starts up the ambulance and turns it around, as per Peter’s instructions, she still has a million questions buzzing around her head. But she’s a nurse, and she practically prioritizes for a living, so she puts her worries about Scott and Stiles and the ambulance workers, and her musings about how Derek and Peter know each other and who the hell told them about what had happened anyway out of her mind, and focuses on the road.

***

            Outside the Sheriff’s car, Scott takes a deep breath, letting the scents of the world around him fill his nose. He’s not exactly the best tracker – he was born human, after all, and it’s not easy to deal with a sense he practically didn’t have before – but he can get by.

            It helps, of course, that this is Stiles he’s tracking. Sometimes, Scott feels like Stiles is _all_ he can smell – they’ve been joined at the hip for so long that Scott’s room, Scott’s locker, hell, Scott _himself_ , all have traces of Stiles’s scent lingering on them.

            Stiles smells like honey and unwashed gym socks, like loyalty and strength, and _family_ , and Scott picks up his scent on the wind almost instantly. Behind him, Scott can hear Isaac taking the deep, regular breaths that indicate his own search for the scent, and Scott’s once again grateful to have him here.

            Sheriff Stilinski clears his throat loudly, and Scott realizes how odd this must look, the two of them just standing here sniffing the air. He gives the Sheriff his best innocent smile and jerks his head at Isaac, indicating that he should get in the car.

             Scott slides into the passenger seat and rolls down his window as soon as the Sheriff starts the car. “Go left,” he instructs. “Isaac, you’ve got the scent?”

            He cranes his neck to see Isaac nod from the backseat. “Alright, you track him, and I’ll explain.”

            The Sheriff hasn’t started driving yet. “Scent? Track?” he asks

            Scott refrains from rolling his eyes, because the Sheriff’s still got a gun. “I promise I’ll explain on the way,” he says. “But you know as well as I do that the longer Stiles is missing, the more chance there is of him getting hurt.”

            Scott had learned that from the one summer that he and Stiles had spent watching the original CSI for hours a day, eating ice cream while Stiles complained loudly about how unrealistic it was that Greg could analyze a DNA sample in five minutes. Apparently, television has steered him right, for once, because the Sheriff nods like Scott actually knows what he’s talking about and begins driving, making the left that Scott had requested.

            If there’s one thing Scott can thank Derek for, it’s teaching him that you didn’t have to be right to be in charge, just authoritative. Scott can see that the Sheriff’s not going to be content to go without an explanation for much longer, though, so he just launches into it. “Do you remember that one night, when you were searching for Laura Hale’s body in the woods, and you found Stiles out there?” he asks.

            The Sheriff gives him a quick glance before returning his eyes to the road. “Let me guess. You were there too.”

            Scott wonders how long the Sheriff has known that. “Yeah, well. See, the thing is…” Wow, it’s a lot harder to tell someone about this than it is for them to find out accidentally. Scott half considers shifting, but he doesn’t want to freak the Sheriff out _too_ badly – he’s driving, after all.

            The Sheriff glances at him again, disapproving look firm on his face. Scott decides to just come out with it. “That night in the woods – I was bitten by a werewolf.”

            Scott’s expecting the Sheriff to let out a laugh or tell him to stop lying. Instead, he gives an assessing nod. “This is a crazy thing to say, but that actually makes a lot of sense,” he admits. “You’re one too then, Isaac?”

            Isaac, who had been hanging his head out the car window, trying to track Stiles, ducks back inside. “Yeah. Scent’s stronger on the next right.” He sticks his head back out the window.

            “And Stiles?” the Sheriff asks, an undertone of fear to his voice.

            “Completely human,” Scott confirms, wanting to reassure him. Scott has seen, experienced firsthand, what it’s like for a parent to come to terms with the fact that their child is a werewolf. He wants to make sure he can spare the Sheriff that pain.

            The Sheriff’s shoulders relax slightly, but the tension is still evident throughout his body. “As soon as we find Stiles,” he says “I want proof of this, and then I want the both of you to explain every single weird thing that’s happened in this town over the past few months.”

            “Yeah, definitely,” Scott says. They drive in silence for a few minutes, before Isaac brings his head back in the car.

            “The scent’s getting fainter,” he says, furrowing his brows. “Maybe you can do better, Scott?”

            Scott immediately leans his own head outside searching the wind for the scent. The Sheriff slows down slightly, trying to make it as easy as possible for him.

            Isaac’s right – the scent’s definitely getting fainter. Scott hates to admit it, but it seems as though this driving thing isn’t working out very well. “I think we should probably try it on foot for a while,” he says, trying to pat down his windswept hair. “I think we’re going too fast to really pick anything up.”

            The Sheriff looks frustrated, knowing that this will take longer, but he seems to agree – he pulls the car over to the side of the road and gets out, clicking on a flashlight.

            After he’s out of the car, Scott exchanges looks with Isaac. This will really be a whole lot easier if they shift, but he’s afraid the Sheriff will have some sort of delayed reaction freak-out if he sees them go into wolf mode. They really don’t have a choice, though, so Scott turns to the Sheriff. “Isaac and I are going to shift, and see if we can pick up the scent again,” he says. He’s trying to sound reassuring, but he suspects, from the look on the Sheriff’s face, that he’s missing his mark by a wide margin. “You won’t be able to keep up with us on foot, so wait here, okay?”

            “It’s a good a time as any to get that proof, I suppose,” the Sheriff says. He’s looking at Scott intently, like he’s going to catalogue every little change to Scott’s body and document it for later inspection. It makes Scott nervous, but he starts to shift anyway

            He’s looked in the mirror when he’s shifted before, and he remembers being shocked at how entirely different his face looked, because shifting isn’t painful or uncomfortable for him. He can’t feel his ears lengthening, his jaw shifting to accommodate his fangs, his claws bursting out of his fingertips. It feels _right_ to shift – like slipping from unconsciousness to awakening. It’s just another natural state for his body to be in.

            Shift completed, Scott looks up at the Sheriff and sees the shock and fear he’d expected reflecting in his eyes.

            “Well I’ll be damned,” the Sheriff says softly. “Wait, you can still understand me, right?”

            Scott actually does roll his eyes this time. He’s not _actually_ an animal, thanks. He nods and looks to Isaac, who’s finished shifting also, and the two of them make for the woods, noses to the ground.

***

            When Melissa pulls the ambulance into their destination, she’s, quite frankly, confused as all hell. Sure, she knows now that Jackson’s not entirely human, but she fails to see how a veterinarian will be able to treat a giant werelizard.

            “Dr. Deaton’s office?” she asks, turning to Peter.

            “You might be surprised at how much Scott’s boss can help us,” says Peter with an enigmatic smile. Melissa’s getting thoroughly sick of him already. Scratch apologizing to Stiles – she’s gonna thank the kid next time she sees him. She really dodged a bullet, there.

            As they step outside and go around to the back doors of the ambulance, Melissa hears light footsteps behind her. She turns around to come face-to-face with Lydia Martin, all disheveled hair and smudged eyeliner.

            “How is he?” Lydia asks desperately, her eyes locked on the back doors of the ambulance.

            “I already _told_ you, he’s not going to die. Just probably mutate into something even more terrifying.”

            Melissa really, _really_ hates Peter.

            It seems as though Lydia is in agreement with her on this, although her wide eyes and the involuntary step back she takes when she looks at Peter speak more to fear than hatred. Melissa can feel her motherly instincts coming into play, and she wraps an arm around Lydia’s shoulders, casting a glare Peter’s way.

            Peter rolls his eyes and turns back to the ambulance. Melissa’s about to step forward and offer the keys, because the doors automatically lock from the inside, but, before she can manage it, Derek tugs the door off its hinges with one smooth motion.

            “Show-off,” Peter mutters, ducking into the ambulance and grabbing the stretcher, rolling it out onto the ground.

            Melissa can hardly hold back a gasp when she looks at Jackson. Sometime in the last twenty minutes, he’s gone from looking like a dying teenage boy to looking like something out of a horror movie. He’s covered in some kind of thick, viscous goop, and his face has changed slightly. He doesn’t quite look like the scaly, noseless horror that had pinned her to the ceiling, but his face is going a little gray, and she can tell just from looking at his closed mouth that he’s grown a wicked set of teeth.

            “Oh my God,” Lydia whispers. She steps forward, hand over her mouth. “Oh my God, Jackson…”

            Melissa feels for the girl, she really does, but now is not the time for tears. She doesn’t quite know what’s at stake here, but she can guess that the quicker they get Jackson looked at, the better the outcome will be. “Lydia,” she says, waiting for Lydia to look away from Jackson. “Why don’t we let Derek and Peter take care of him, ok?” Melissa tries her best not to sound patronizing, but she’s not sure she succeeds: that’s always been one of her weaknesses.

            “I don’t trust them,” Lydia says. “It’s their fault he’s like this in the first place!” She’s looking directly at Derek when she says this, and Derek gives a visible flinch.

            Melissa had guessed that something like that had happened, given the interest Derek had taken in Jackson, but she can’t find it in her to be bothered right now. Maybe Derek and Peter weren’t entirely trustworthy, but what was her alternative? The only other person she could possibly ask for help is Scott and, much as Melissa loves her son, she knows he’s not likely to know what to do. Besides, she’d bet her life that he’s out looking for Stiles right now, and she doesn’t want to hinder him.

            “Lydia,” Melissa tries again, her voice firmer this time. “They’re all we have.”

            Lydia sags, the fight going out of her in an instant. “Ok,” she says, nodding her head. “Ok, you’re right.” She turns and buries her head in Melissa’s neck. As Derek and Peter begin to wheel the stretcher towards the front doors of the clinic, Melissa can feel Lydia’s body shaking, and the chill of a few tears fall on her skin.

            Melissa doesn’t know what else to do but follow them inside, arm still tight around Lydia.

***

            Stiles doesn’t think that he has ever hurt more than he does right now. He’s having a problem processing _why_ he hurts, though – the last thing he remembers is scoring the winning goal, hearing his father and Lydia shouting with joy in the background.

            He doesn’t want to open his eyes, afraid of what he might find. From behind his eyelids, he can see that he’s in a brightly lit room, and his ears are filled with a strange buzzing noise. Both of these things indicate that he’s been taken somewhere, away from the lacrosse field and the comfort of his friends and teammates, and he _really_ doesn’t want to deal with whatever werewolf-related crisis is going on now.

            Stiles is a naturally curious guy, though, and he’d be kidding himself if he thought that he could resist for long. He pries his eyelids open and sits up, blinking a few times to orient himself in his new surroundings.

            What he sees is highly disturbing. He’s in some kind of basement (of course, it’s practically _required_ for the villain to have a basement lair) and, not three feet in front of him, Boyd and Erica are hanging, trussed up by their wrists.

            Stiles jumps to his feet, his own pain forgotten in light of theirs. Erica’s eyes are wide and fearful as he darts forward, grabbing at their bonds to pull them down.

            As soon as he touches the ropes, though, a painful jolt goes through him, and he drops them on reflex. Electrified. Damn it.

            Erica’s giving him a reproachful look, now, as though he should’ve somehow understood that he wouldn’t be able to touch the ropes just from the look in her eyes. He’s just about to take their gags off, whether to plot with them or to yell at them for running off alone, he’s not sure, when he hears footsteps behind him.

            Whirling around, Stiles casts his eyes over the room to see if he can spot some sort of weapon. He’s far from stupid, and he knows that he needs more than just his fists to be any sort of match for the hunters.

            It seems like he’s shit out of luck, though, because instead of some miraculous deus ex machina appearing in the form of a convenient knife or lead pipe, Stiles finds himself grabbed tightly in the surprisingly strong arms of Gerard Argent.

            He struggles, of course he does, hoping to get an elbow into the old geezer’s stomach, or something, but Gerard’s holding him fast and he gives up after a few seconds, hanging in Gerard’s grasp like so much dead weight.

            This, of course, is when Gerard chooses to drop him, sending Stiles to the ground in an undignified heap.

            “If you’re done with that?” Gerard says, condescending.

            Stiles glares up at him. “Look, can you just give me the evil speech of evil already?” he asks. “I don’t really want to listen to you talk for longer than I have to.”

            Gerard smirks. “I’m afraid you don’t really have a choice.” He walks over to where Boyd and Erica are hanging, getting so close that they must be uncomfortable. “Do you know what electricity does to a werewolf?” he asks conversationally.

            Stiles groans and lets his head drop back to rest on the floor, preparing for the inevitable monologue. He just hopes that Gerard will let something important slip when he’s in the middle of spewing his crazy.

            “You see, electricity can cancel out a werewolf’s powers. At a low voltage, like this one, it merely stops them from shifting. If you turn it up a little, though…” Gerard walks over to a console and flicks a small switch. The soft buzz that’s been permeating the room gets a little louder, and Boyd gives a full-body twitch, while Erica lets out a cry of pain that’s muffled by her gag. “They stop being able to heal,” Gerard finishes, looking smug.

            “Hey, come on, what’ve they ever done to you?” Stiles asks, sitting up.

            “You _know_ what they’ve done,” Gerard says, his voice going low and super creepy the way it does when he gets mad.

            “No, I can’t say I do,” Stiles retorts. “They’ve been werewolves for like, five minutes, and the only person they’ve hurt is _me_.”

            “They do have good taste in that respect, then,” Gerard mutters. He reaches over and takes ahold of Erica’s face with one hand. Boyd gives a deep, rumbling growl, and Erica tries to pull her head away, but Gerard’s grip on her is too strong. “It’s not really personal,” Gerard admits. “But Derek, for some reason, seems to care about these puppies, so what better way to hurt him than by hurting them?”

            Stiles gets to his feet, finally feeling that Gerard won’t just push him right back over. His struggle earlier had left him winded – he thinks he might actually have a broken rib, and that’s making it painful and difficult to breathe. “You know that Derek didn’t kill Kate, right?” he asks. “Not that he’d be wrong if he _had_ , because hey, the psycho bitch killed his entire family-”

            Stiles is interrupted when Gerard backhands him across the face, sending him sprawling back to the floor. “-But it was actually Derek’s uncle, Peter,” Stiles grits out, holding his now-bleeding lip.

            Gerard strides over and stops just short of where Stiles is lying. He considers Stiles for a moment, then draws his foot back and kicks him right in the stomach.

            Stiles can barely hear over the roar of pain in his ears as he curls up into a ball around his aching stomach. He can still make out Gerard’s words, though: “Peter Hale is dead. Derek Hale isn’t. One monster’s just as good as the next.”

            “Why do you have me, then?” Stiles wheezes. “It’s not like I know anything, or like Derek’s gonna come looking for me.”

            Gerard laughs. “And they told me you were the intelligent one.”

            Before Stiles can even begin to contemplate what that might mean, Gerard is walking towards the stairs. “Come downstairs, sweetheart,” he calls. “I’ve got a job for you.”

            Stiles looks up, hopeful. The only person he can think of that Gerard would call ‘sweetheart’ is Allison, and surely, no matter what had happened, she can help him get out of this.

            The girl that Stiles sees come down the stairs, though, is nearly unrecognizable. It’s not just the way she looks – although that’s different also, all black leather and a weird half-updo – but the way she’s carrying herself. It reminds Stiles of the few times he’d come into contact with Kate: Allison’s all cool confidence, with none of the sweetness he’s come to expect from her. She’s carrying her bow, a monstrous black thing, and Stiles is absolutely scared shitless.

            Still, as Gerard gives Allison instructions to keep an eye on Stiles, to make sure he doesn’t attempt to free Boyd and Erica again, Stiles can see a little glimmer of doubt in her. She looks back and forth between Stiles and Gerard a few times – it’s subtle, but it implies an uncertainty about the situation.

            Stiles can work with uncertainty.

***

            It’s been about twenty minutes since Scott and Isaac started searching for Stiles’s scent on foot, and Scott is finally ready to admit defeat. It’s as though the scent has just disappeared, dispersed into the wind.

            Scott’s thinking that maybe Gerard had covered the scent, somehow, trying to throw him off, but he can’t think what the purpose of that might be. Gerard hasn’t got any direct business with Stiles – he’s human, after all – so the whole purpose of kidnapping Stiles must have been to lure Scott somewhere.

            At least, Scott’s hoping that’s the case, because if Gerard has a different plan for Stiles, then he’s in very real danger.

            From Scott’s left shoulder, Isaac gives a soft whine. Scott can tell immediately that Isaac’s reached the same conclusion as him – this is pointless, and it’ll be better for everyone involved if they go back and regroup.

            The two wolves turn around and lope back towards the edge of the woods, where Sheriff Stilinski is leaning against the side of his car, gun out and pointed towards the ground. He lifts it up when he hears the sound of the approaching wolves, but lowers it again as soon as he recognizes them. “Anything?” he asks.

            Scott takes a second to retreat into himself, accessing his latent humanity. When he opens his eyes again, he’s back to normal, and the Sheriff has relaxed enough to put the gun away entirely. “No luck,” Scott admits.

            The Sheriff’s shoulders slump in defeat. “Well, I guess I’ll issue an APB on him, then.”

            “Wait,” Isaac says suddenly. “We don’t have to get the police involved. There’s another option.”

            Scott knows what he’s about to say, and hurries to head it off. “What makes you think Derek’ll know what to do? Is it even worth it to tell him?” It’s not that Scott mistrusts Derek anymore, exactly, but he’s not exactly known to be the caring type, especially when it comes to Stiles.

            “He’s a _born wolf_ ,” Isaac argues, obviously intent on defending his Alpha. “He’ll be able to track better than us. And he already knows what’s going on.”

            “He does?”

            Isaac pulls out his phone, waving it in front of Scott’s face. “I told him. He’s at Dr. Deaton’s with Jackson right now.”

            Scott’s surprised as hell, but the Sheriff interrupts before he can express it. “Deaton? You’re telling me the _vet_ is in on this too? Is there anyone in this town who’s not involved with this werewolf crap?”

            Scott and Isaac exchange glances. “Uh…” says Scott eloquently.

            The Sheriff waves his hand impatiently. “Whatever. Look, if Hale – I’m assuming you’re talking about Derek Hale.” He waits for Scott’s answering nod before continuing. “If Hale can help us find Stiles, then we should meet up with him.”

            Scott can’t argue with that. The only other alternative, at this point, is getting the police involved, and that could end bloody. “Fine,” he says. “Should we meet him at Deaton’s, Isaac?”

            Isaac’s fingers are already flashing over the keyboard of his phone. “Probably not,” he says, sounding distracted. “We don’t want to distract Deaton from whatever he’s doing to Jackson.”

            He sends the message, then waits a few seconds for the answering beep. “He says to meet him at the Hale house,” he parrots.

            “Since when does Derek even have a cell phone?” Scott asks. Given the amount of times that Derek has broken into people’s houses just to have a chat, Scott’s been working under the assumption that Derek doesn’t actually know how to use a telephone.

            Isaac just shrugs. “Helps him keep in contact with the pack, I guess,” It’s a non-answer, but it seems like it’s the best that Scott’s going to get, because Isaac’s already walking back towards the Sheriff’s car.

            Scott follows his lead, slipping back into the passenger seat. As the Sheriff guns the engine, he says, casually, “You can use this drive to tell me who, exactly, has kidnapped my son, and why.” His tone allows no room for disagreement, and Scott stifles a sigh.

            It’s going to be a long drive.

***

            Melissa’s never found Scott’s boss to be an intimidating man. Quite the opposite, in fact – there’s something about Dr. Deaton, his kindly face or constant air of calm, maybe, that tends to put her completely at ease.

            Now, though, as she trails behind the stretcher that carries the gelatinous mass of Jackson, Lydia in tow, he doesn’t have the same influence on her. He’s radiating hostility, actually, though his face is still impassive.

            It’s made abundantly clear what the source of this hostility is when Peter steps forward. “Doctor,” he says with a smirk, inclining his head. “I hope this meeting will go better than our last one.”

            The only indication Deaton gives that he’s bothered by these words is a slight furrowing of the eyebrows. Despite his body language, his voice is completely even when he speaks. “Peter. It’s a…surprise to see you here.”

            “You can thank Lydia for that,” says Peter.

            Instinctively, Melissa draws Lydia closer. She doesn’t know exactly what they’re talking about, but it reassures her conviction that Peter is bad news.

            “You can’t blame someone for being manipulated,” Deaton says.

            Peter folds his arms across his chest and adopts a hurt expression. “I don’t like what you’re implying, Doc.”

            Deaton chooses not to dignify this with a response, turning to Derek instead. “Let’s get him into the examination room,” he says, eyes on Jackson. “Mrs. McCall, Lydia…if you could just wait out here, please?”

            “Of course,” Melissa says, pulling Lydia over to the chairs in the corner of the room. “And how many times have I told you to call me Melissa?” She knows that the smile she’s attempting is probably coming off as entirely false, given how worn and worried she feels, but Dr. Deaton doesn’t appear to notice.

            He nods his head at her and motions for Derek to follow him through the doors. He doesn’t acknowledge Peter again, but also doesn’t protest when Peter trails behind Derek.

            As the door shuts, Melissa turns to her remaining companion. Lydia’s eyes are downcast, and she’s fiddling with the ends of her sleeves. Melissa can tell that she’s trying hard not to completely break down.

            Wanting to distract Lydia from what could possibly be going on in the next room, Melissa asks, “So, what do you know about all this supernatural stuff?”

            Lydia sniffs once and then looks up. “Um, not much. I mean, I…brought Peter back to life, or whatever, and apparently I’m ‘immune’ to something, and Jackson’s some sort of weird creature, and Scott and Stiles and Allison have all these secrets -” Her face begins to crumble. “No one tells me anything,” she finishes quietly.

            Melissa snorts. “Tell me about it. I had to find out my son is a werewolf by seeing him transform in front of me.”

            Lydia looks disbelieving. “Werewolves? _That’s_ what they’ve been hiding from me?”

            “Is it that hard to believe?” Melissa asks. “You brought Peter back from the dead, apparently. Surely after that, anything is plausible?”

            “I guess so,” Lydia says. “That’s not what Jackson is though, right? He doesn’t act like Scott does.”

            Smart girl. Melissa appreciates that. “They call Jackson a Kanima. I don’t really know what that means, but as far as I can tell he turns into some lizard thing that’s controlled by an old man.”

            Lydia nods, looking nonplussed. “Ok…” she says.

            Melissa shrugs. “Hey, I didn’t make it up.”

            “So what’re they going to do?” Lydia asks. She’s starting to look all weepy again, the shock from hearing that her ex-boyfriend is a lizard obviously wearing off.

            “I don’t know, honey,” Melissa says helplessly.

            “And why am I even here, anyway?” Lydia asks, suddenly angry. “It’s not like I can do anything to _help_ him.”

            “Lydia…” Melissa says.

            “No,” Lydia returns. “I’m sorry, Mrs. McCall, but I don’t need your reassurance right now. I just need to know whether or not Jackson’s going to be alright.”

            Melissa pauses for a few seconds before answering, wary of upsetting Lydia further. “It’s the wait that’s killing you, huh?”

            “ _Yes_ ,” Lydia says. “It’s like, if he’s going to die, or mutate into something and lose his humanity, or whatever, then I can at least _mourn_.”

            “There’s still a part of you that’s hoping it’ll be ok?”

            Lydia nods, the fight going out of her. “Yeah. Yeah. I just – I’ve never had to deal with anything like this before.”

            Any reply that Melissa might make is interrupted when the door to the exam room opens and Derek and Peter stride out of it.

            Lydia jumps to her feet. “What’s going on? Is he alright?”

            “If anyone can save Jackson, Dr. Deaton can,” says Derek.

            “What my emotionally repressed nephew _means_ to say is, we don’t really know what’s happening, but we’ve got other things we need to do,” says Peter.

            Melissa files the word ‘nephew’ into her brain for later perusal, and asks, “Where are you going?”

            “Stiles is still missing,” says Derek. “We can’t do anything more for Jackson, but we can help find Stiles.”

            It’s the most Melissa has ever heard Derek speak, and she’s pleasantly surprised. The tone of Derek’s voice suggests that he actually _cares_ about what happens to Stiles and Jackson, in a way that Peter’s never has. “Should I go with you?” she asks, concerned about Stiles’s welfare. The kid is practically a second son to her, after all.

            “You’ll just slow us down,” says Peter. “Besides, you’re too pretty to be running around in the woods.”

            Melissa seriously want to punch him in the face, but she restrains herself – she’s not entirely sure if he’s human or not, after all. “So what, we’re just supposed to wait here and twiddle our thumbs?”

            “We’re going to be doing some seriously dangerous things, Mrs. McCall,” says Derek. “We don’t want you or Lydia to be hurt.”

            “Speak for yourself,” Peter mutters, before raising his voice to say, “Come _on_ , Derek, we don’t have all night.”

            Derek nods stiffly, and the two of them are out the door before Melissa can make any more protests.   

***

            “So, Allison,” Stiles starts.

            Quick as lightning, Allison fits an arrow to her bow and draws it back, pointing it directly at Stiles’s forehead.

            Stiles lets out a yelp and brings his hands up, as though that’ll somehow protect him if she decides to _shoot him at point-blank range with a fucking arrow_. “Allison, c’mon! We’re friends, right?”

            “We _were_ friends,” Allison says coolly, but she lowers her bow nevertheless. “You’re protecting Derek.”

            She says it like it’s a statement of absolute fact, and Stiles can’t help but be a little offended. “I haven’t done anything!” he protests. “How do you know I won’t help you, hand him right over to you if you let me go?”

            “Will you?” Allison asks.

            “Well, no,” Stiles admits. “But it’s the _principle_ of the thing, ok?”

            Allison rolls her eyes. “Will you just shut up?” she snaps. Stiles sees her fingers shift slightly on her bow. “You know why I have to do this. He killed my mother!”

            “He _bit_ your mother. There’s a difference.”

            “Not in my family, there isn’t,” Allison says, bitter.

            Stiles sees his opportunity. “Allison,” he says softly, shifting closer to her. “You know that people can live perfectly normal lives after being turned into a werewolf. You’ve seen it.”

            Allison gives him an incredulous look that he reads without difficulty. “Ok, maybe Scott hasn’t been exactly _normal_ since he was changed,” he allows. “But he was a freak before, too. You’re just lucky you never met him when he still had asthma, that was annoying as hell.”

            Allison breathes out a little laugh. It’s completely unlike the way she used to laugh when faced with Stiles’s comments – the only reason he hadn’t actually flipped shit when Scott had started hanging all over her was because she had always seemed to find him hilarious – but it’s an opening. Foot in the door, that’s all Stiles needs.

            Allison’s silent for a few seconds, clearly struggling to keep up her Artemis the Emotionless Hunter façade. “I just don’t understand why he had to go after her, though,” she says softly. “It’s not like she did anything wrong.” 

            It hits Stiles like a fucking tidal wave, then. _Holy shit, she doesn’t know._ “Holy shit, you don’t know!”

            Allison looks up at him sharply. “Don’t know what?”

            “Look, I don’t know what Gerard’s been saying to you, but,” Stiles takes a deep breath, hoping that Allison still has enough sense left to believe him, hoping she’s not too caught in her grief to trust him. “Derek only bit your mother because she was trying to kill Scott.” Stiles gets it all out in a rush, then holds his breath, waiting on tenterhooks for her reaction.

            “Trying to kill…” Allison mutters under her breath, eyebrows drawing together. She stands up suddenly. “That’s crazy. You’re lying.” She levels the bow back up at him, but she can’t seem to hold it steady.

            “I’m not,” Stiles says, trying his best not to fidget. He’s not entirely confident that Allison won’t loose an arrow at him if he makes a sudden movement when she’s in this state. “Allison, I know you don’t know Derek that well, but he wouldn’t bite someone for no reason. He just wouldn’t.”

            “Erica, and Boyd, and Isaac…” Allison spits.

            “…All asked for the bite, _after_ Derek explained to them what would happen if they accepted it!” Stiles shoots back. “Look, he’s certainly not a fucking _saint_ or anything, but he was just trying to save Scott’s life.” 

            Stiles can see the exact moment that Allison realizes he’s telling the truth. Her eyes widen and her entire body goes slack, just seconds before her bow clatters to the floor. “Oh my God,” she whispers, one hand coming up to cover her mouth. “Oh my _God_.”

            She looks like she’s about thirty-five seconds from keeling over, so Stiles jumps to his feet, ready to be her substitute Prince Charming while Scott is off God-knows-where. Probably looking for Stiles, actually, though if he was actually a decent werewolf, he would have found him by now.

            Anyway, Stiles jumps to his feet, ready to steady her, but his broken rib, which he’d largely forgotten about, gives a painful twinge and he collapses back down almost as soon as he gets up.

            “Stiles!” And then Allison is at his side, face creased with worry. So much for Prince Charming. “Are you alright? What’s wrong?”

            “Think the old bastard broke a rib,” Stiles says, face pulled into a grimace. “Maybe I shouldn’t try to move so fast, huh?”

            Allison helps him sit up, leaning his back against the wall. “So you’ll come back to our side, right?” Stiles asks. “Back on the Good Guy team?”

            Allison hesitates. “I...I don’t know. I mean…”

            Stiles decides that it’s time to get serious. He has a sneaking feeling that Gerard’s planning something big, and getting Allison back on their side will not only mean one more ally, but will also mean one less enemy with a big fuck-off bow. “I know how you feel, you know,” he says, trying hard not to let his voice waver. “I lost my mom too.”

            That stops Allison’s hedging and gets her attention. Her brown eyes are wide and open, and she looks younger than Stiles has ever seen her. “What happened?” she asks. “You’ve never…”

            “Never talked about it, I know,” Stiles says. He takes a deep breath. “It wasn’t…it wasn’t _exactly_ like your mom, y’know, because it was the cancer that killed her, and I couldn’t really blame it on anybody, but. But I know how it feels. Like she’s there one minute, and the next she’s just…gone, and it takes you a long time to realize she’s never coming back,” he breaks off with a harsh, humorless laugh and scrubs his hand through his short hair. “Hell, sometimes I _still_ catch myself thinking that she’s just at work, or hiding around the corner or something, and it’s been _six fucking years_. And there’s this part of you that’s just empty, like there’s nothing where there was _something_ before, and you know that nothing will ever replace it, and it’ll never, ever go away.”

            There are tears swimming in Allison’s eyes, and Stiles has long since given up on trying to stop his voice from breaking.

            “And then everyone around you keeps offering all these fucking _platitudes_ y’know?” he continues. “Like, ‘she’s in a better place now’, or ‘at least the pain’s gone’, or my favorite, ‘ _God works in mysterious ways_ ’,” he nearly spits out the last part. “And if they’re not doing _that_ , then they’re constantly giving you these big fucking sad eyes, or asking you if you’re alright, like you’re ever going to be ok again, or they’re trying to distract you and keep your mind off it. And the whole time, all you can think about is how none of them know. None of them know what you’re fucking feeling, even the rest of your family, because none of them had the same relationship with her that you did. Your dad may have lost his wife, and her parents may have lost a daughter, but you’ve lost a _mother_ , and that’s entirely different. Not more or less sad, just different. And even other people whose mothers have died, _they_ don’t even know what you’re going through, because it was _your_ mom, and that’s different.”

            Stiles knows he’s rambling, because that’s what he does best, but he finds it difficult to stop himself. There’s a reason that he doesn’t talk about his mom much, and it’s not because it makes him sad – well, not _just_ because it makes him sad, anyway – but because he feels like once he starts, he’ll never stop.

            “So I guess what I’m trying to say here,” he says, knowing that the quicker he gets Allison on his side and comes up with a plan, the better. “Is that I know what you’re going through, except I really don’t and I always hated it when people said that kind of thing, and also that you should stop trying to kill Derek and the rest of us, because you don’t want to make other people feel like this by killing their family members. Or something.”

            There’s an awkward silence, wherein Stiles is absolutely convinced that he’s fucked this up, and that Allison’s about to skewer him with her bow, before she launches herself into his arms, sobbing.

            Stiles lets out a little ‘oof’ as her body comes in contact with his broken rib, but he doesn’t say anything out loud, unwilling to risk breaking the moment.

            Luckily for him, Allison’s a sensible sort of girl, so she pulls away after just a few moments, wiping at her eyes with one hand. “Sorry, did I hurt you? I forgot about the rib,” she says, voice still thick with tears.

            “No, I’m fine,” Stiles reassures her, even though his chest feels like it’s on fire. “So, whaddya say? Ready to help save us all from your psycho grandpa and his pet lizard?”

            “Yeah.” Allison nods, taking a deep, shuddering breath. “Yeah.” 

***

            When Sheriff Stilinski pulls up outside the burnt remains of the Hale house, there’s no conversation happening in the car. Scott’s just finished a long-winded and confused explanation of the Argents and their vendetta against werewolves, of Peter Hale and his relationship to the killings in the town, of Kate and Derek and the fire, and of Stiles’s relationship to it all.

            The Sheriff hadn’t spoken the entire time, just let Scott ramble on, only interrupted by an occasional interjection from Isaac when he got too far off track.

            As they step out of the car and look around, trying to see if Derek’s already lurking in the shadows, Scott’s nervous. He knows that the Sheriff won’t abandon them now – at least not until after they find Stiles – but it’s possible that he’ll flip out after the fact, get angry at Stiles for all the dangerous shit he’s been lying about. Worse, the Sheriff could forbid him from seeing Scott, which just – no. Even though Scott’s come a long way over the last year, even though he’s no longer the loser with only Stiles and his inhaler for company, he still doesn’t think he could do without his best friend.

            And yeah, Stiles has never been the type to do what he’s told, but it would still put a hell of a lot of strain on the situation, if that did happen.  

            “Look, Sheriff Stilinski,” Scott begins, after a few moments of silence. “I’m sorry for all the danger I’ve put Stiles in over the last few months, but -”

            The Sheriff cuts him off with a sigh. “It’s not your fault, Scott. You didn’t ask for any of this.”

            “No, but I did kinda drag him into it all. And I swear, when I first got bitten, I had no idea things would end so bad.”

            At that, the Sheriff looks up and gives a small smile. “I’m not sure if I believe that you ‘dragged’ him into anything. In my experience, that’s kinda hard to do.”

            The Sheriff has a point, Scott thinks, remembering how Stiles had been the one to figure out what was wrong with him in the first place, how Stiles was the one who always came up with the plans and suggested that they get tangled in the supernatural intrigue, when Scott would have been content to just hang around with Allison instead.

            Scott quickly steers his thoughts away from his ex-girlfriend, because thinking about that whole situation, about Allison turning into Gerard’s pawn, will only serve to distract him from what’s going on around him.

            Luckily, his attempt at wrangling his thoughts is aided by the arrival of Derek. Scott smells him before he hears or sees him, that charcoal and leather and _pain_ that characterizes Derek’s scent assaulting his nose.

            Isaac seems to register it at the same moment Scott does, if the way he turns his nose up to the air is an indication. “There’s someone else with him,” Isaac says, puzzled, and Scott can smell it too. The second scent is hard to describe – it’s just _wrong_ , in a way Scott has never experienced before.

            “What?” the Sheriff asks, and Scott remembers that he’s still human.

            “Derek’s coming,” he answers, then pauses to take another deep sniff. “There’s someone else with him, though, we don’t know who it is.”

            The Sheriff looks wary, and he pulls his gun out from his belt. Scott supposes it’s better to be safe, here, but he’s fairly sure that Derek would be able to take care of this other person if they were a threat.

            And if he couldn’t, the Sheriff’s gun would be useless anyway.

            There’s another minute of restless anticipation – mostly on the Sheriff’s part. When Derek appears, though, wreathed in moonlight at the edge of the clearing, Scott’s not reassured.

            Because standing behind him is Peter Hale, who is cruel and dangerous and also supposed to be dead.

            Scott thinks he makes some kind of whimpering noise – he’s really too shocked to process it, but judging by the widening grin on Peter’s face, he must have done something to embarrass himself.

            He realizes his mouth is open and snaps it shut, swallowing with an audible click before saying, “What the hell is _he_ doing here?” in what he hopes is an authoritative tone.

            Isaac side-eyes him, confused, because Peter is clearly not a werewolf, and therefore shouldn’t be a threat, but the Sheriff, presumably recognizing Peter from the fire or investigation of his death, trains his gun on the former Alpha.

            “Come any closer and I’ll shoot,” the Sheriff says tersely, voice steadier than Scott expects.

            Peter, from across the clearing, gives a chuckle and raises his hands in mock-surrender. “A little trigger-happy, aren’t we?” he calls.

            Derek rolls his eyes. “It’s fine, Scott. He’s with me.”

            That doesn’t make Scott feel better. “Did you forget how he killed a shitload of people? Including your _sister_?”

            Scott can see Derek’s flinch from across the clearing, but he doesn’t have time to process it, because it seems as though Isaac has finally caught on. “That’s Peter Hale?” he asks, brow furrowed. “He’s not a wolf, though.”

            Peter begins to stride forward, apparently unconcerned by the Sheriff’s threats. “Yes, unfortunately the little…ritual that brought me back made me human.” He stops just a few feet away from Scott and gives a theatrical sigh. “But beggars can’t be choosers, I suppose.”

            The Sheriff’s still got his gun trained on Peter’s head, and he’s starting to look like he’s seriously considering pulling the trigger. Scott’s not entirely sure that would be a bad thing, but it’s also not what they have to worry about right now.

            Derek seems to have the same idea. “Can we discuss this later?” he asks, glare firmly in place.

            The Sheriff puts down his gun. “You’re going to help me find my son, right?” he asks.

            Derek looks up and meets the Sheriff’s eyes, probably for the first time since his arrest. “Of course,” he answers.

            “And what makes you think you’ll be any more successful than these guys?” The Sheriff gestures at Scott and Isaac, and Scott can’t help but be a bit touched that the Sheriff has that much faith in his tracking abilities.

            Peter snorts. “Derek here might be useless at this whole alpha thing, but he’s still got a better nose than these pups.”

            “Peter…” Derek warns.

            “Ugh. Fine, fine, I’ll play nice,” Peter says. “But we wouldn’t be _having_ this problem if the kid had just accepted the bite from me in the first place.”

            Derek gives a low growl, deep in his throat, at the same time that Scott hears the distinct sound of the Sheriff’s gun cocking.

            Peter raises his hands again, but doesn’t say anything. If nothing else, he apparently knows when it’s time to quit.

            Derek stares his uncle down for a few more seconds, before focusing his attention on the Sheriff. “Not only was I born a werewolf, so I’m more in tune with my senses,” he explains, “but alphas can turn into full wolves, instead of the half-wolf form the betas take, so my nose is a little better.”

            Despite Scott’s earlier explanation, he can tell that the Sheriff doesn’t really know what Derek’s talking about. In fact, he himself doesn’t really know what Derek’s talking about, because he’s never heard of this difference. In fact… “I didn’t know you could turn into a full wolf.”

            “We don’t exactly hang out much, do we?” Derek asks. “Do you have something for me to scent?”

            Scott turns to Isaac. “Did you know about this?” he demands. He doesn’t like feeling this out of the loop.

            Isaac shrugs. “I knew he could turn into a full wolf, and I suspected that it would mean he’s a better tracker.”

            Scott’s certain that he looks horribly offended right now.

            “ _Scott_ ,” Derek says, sounding as though he’s in physical pain. Right, Stiles is still missing, time is of the essence and all that.

            “Right, it’s in the car, sorry,” Scott mutters. He hears Peter stifle a laugh behind him as he goes to fetch Stiles’s shirt.

            He throws it at Derek when he comes back, aware that it makes him seem like the petulant teenager he is, but unable to bring himself to care.

            Derek doesn’t let him have any satisfaction, snatching the shirt out of the air before it hits his face. He takes a sniff, longer and deeper than the ones Scott and Isaac had taken earlier. It almost makes Scott uncomfortable, actually, the amount of time that Derek leaves his face buried in the shirt.

            When he’s finally done, he glares at Scott. “Next time you’re going to use something for scent, try not to _get your scent all over it_ ,” he growls.

            Scott opens his mouth to protest, but Derek’s already started to shift, morphing into a wolf before his eyes, and he ends up gaping.

            He’s seen an alpha in full wolf form, of course – he couldn’t forget how fucking terrifying Peter was if he tried – but he’d never seen one in the process of transforming, at least, not clearly. The only word that can accurately describe it is mesmerizing. It seems to be taking place much more slowly than shifts to beta form do, and Scott can see every little thing happening – Derek’s legs shortening and arms lengthening, his spine bowing under the pressure, his nose elongating. Scott wonders if it’s painful, wonders if Derek can feel the motion of every bone and muscle in his body as it rearranges. If he can, he’s giving no indication – in fact he’s completely, almost eerily, silent.

            It feels like it takes forever for Derek to change, but it’s probably only thirty seconds. When it’s over, Scott finds himself face to face with a wolf that is somehow, even bigger than Peter’s alpha had been.

            “Holy _shit_ ,” the Sheriff whispers behind Scott. Scott feels like he’d be shocked by hearing the Sheriff swear for the first time ever in his presence, if it weren’t for the fact that Derek was taking up his ability to be shocked.

            The Derek-wolf lowers his massive head, staring straight into Scott’s eyes with his red ones. Somehow, this calms Scott – something about the wolf makes it clear that it’s Derek and, despite the lack of trust Scott may have shown in the past, he knows that Derek won’t actually try to hurt him. Once Derek’s sure he’s gotten Scott’s attention (though, how could he _not_ have Scott’s attention, really?) he gives the Sheriff’s car, parked at the edge of the clearing, a meaningful look.

            Scott’s kinda lost by this – does Derek think he’s going to fit inside that tiny car? – but luckily, Isaac seems to understand what he’s getting at. Must be a pack thing. “He wants us to get in the car,” Isaac says. “He’ll lead us along a road for as long as he can.”

            The Sheriff nods grimly and puts his gun back in his belt for the first time since Derek and Peter showed up. Before he can slide into the driver’s seat, though, he’s interrupted.

            “Can I have a ride?” Peter asks sheepishly.

            The Sheriff just looks at him in disbelief, eyebrows raised nearly to his hairline.

            “Hey, you _need_ me,” Peter protests. “I know a hell of a lot more about all this stuff than Heathcliff over there.”

            Scott doesn’t really get what Peter means by calling Derek ‘Heathcliff’, but Derek does, judging by the growling. Which is a lot scarier when he’s a wolf than when he’s a human, actually.

            “Fine,” the Sheriff relents, side-eyeing Derek. “Scott gets shotgun, though.”

            “Oh, _come on_ ,” Peter complains, but he gets in the back seat anyway.

            When he, Scott and Isaac are all buckled in, Derek gets off his haunches and starts running towards the main road. He’s _fast_ , must be going at least thirty miles an hour, and the Sheriff has to gun the engine and peel after him so they don’t get left behind.

            For the first time tonight, Scott feels a little swell of hope in his stomach. Despite what Derek says, all that nonsense about him being the alpha of his own pack, he’s really not comfortable being in charge. Being in charge means planning and decision making, two things that aren’t exactly his strong point.

            He’ll be really fucking glad when he’s got his best friend back to do that kind of stuff for him.

***

            Ever since Derek and Peter left, Melissa’s been staring at the clock. She knows that with every minute that goes by, both Jackson and Stiles have less and less of a chance of survival.

            The clock ticks over to ten, and it’s officially been two hours since the lacrosse game ended. Two hours since Jackson stabbed himself with his own claws. Two hours since Stiles was kidnapped. Forty minutes since Jackson had disappeared through the doors of the exam room. Twenty-five minutes since Derek and Peter left.

            In those twenty-five minutes, Melissa has only taken her eyes off the clock twice: once, to check on Lydia, who’s curled up silently in a chair to Melissa’s left, and once to check her phone. No messages, of course, and she’d contemplated calling Scott or the Sheriff, to see what’s going on with the Stiles situation. She’d decided nearly instantly that it was a bad idea, however – they could be in some sort of delicate situation, where a phone going off could give their position away, or something.

            That had only lead to Melissa worrying about what sort of situation her son could be in. Sure, not a week ago she’d seen him heal from a fatal gunshot wound before her eyes, but that doesn’t mean he _can’t_ be hurt or killed, just that guns aren’t the way to do it.

            Then there’s the Sheriff and Stiles, who are both human. That fact makes her even more worried about them than she is about Scott.

            Melissa sighs and tears her eyes away from the clock for the third time. She’s been a nurse long enough to know that worrying about things you can’t control will kill you, if you let it, so she forcibly pushes those thoughts out of her mind. They’ll be fine, all of them, and everything will go back to normal after this.

            Maybe.

            Melissa turns to Lydia and opens her mouth to start another conversation, worried about how quiet Lydia’s being. Before she can make a sound, though, she’s interrupted by a loud screech.

            Lydia sits bolt upright. “What the hell was that?”

            Melissa doesn’t answer. Her blood feels like it’s frozen to ice in her veins, because she’s heard that sound before – right before a tail wrapped around her neck and hoisted her to the ceiling.

            Lydia gets up and comes to stand over by Melissa, both of them facing the doors to the exam room. All’s quiet for a moment, and then…

            The doors open outward with an almighty clash, and Dr. Deaton comes flying through them. Melissa hears him hit the opposite wall of the clinic, hard, but she’s more focused on what’s slinking through the door after him.

            Jackson is just as hideous and terrifying as the last time she saw him, and she can’t, for the life of her, reconcile this scaly creature that’s slinking through the doors, body low to the ground, with Jackson Whittemore.

            Apparently Lydia can, though: either that, or she’s just used logic to figure out who it is, because she steps forward, cautiously, and asks “Jackson?”

            Melissa’s expecting the _thing_ (because she can’t think of it as Jackson) to either turn on Lydia or ignore her. Its response is neither, though: it stops crawling forward and tenses its entire body, then slowly turns its head to look at Lydia.

            Lydia takes another step forward, stretching out a hand. “Lydia!” Melissa hisses. She understands, she thinks, why Lydia is doing this – it’s obvious she’s still in love with Jackson – but Melissa’s afraid the thing will eviscerate her if she gets any closer to it.

            Unfortunately, Melissa’s voice seems to have snapped the thing out of its reverie. It begins to advance again, making a menacing hissing noise. Melissa slowly begins to back away, frantically casting her eyes around the room, in search of something to fight it off with.

            She hears motion to her side, and then Dr. Deaton steps into her line of sight, face perfectly calm, as if he hasn’t just been slammed into a wall. Apparently, the thing is of the opinion that Deaton is a more worthy target than Melissa, because it changes its course to advance on the vet instead.

            Deaton’s got a knife in his hand, a knife that’s coated in some strange, dripping substance. Melissa isn’t sure if he’s already gotten a shot in at the Kanima, and that’s its blood, or if the substance is some kind of poison that can hurt it.

            Deaton makes a lunge, graceful and quick in a way that Melissa would never have expected of him, but the Kanima is too fast for him. It dodges to the side, flicking its tail out to catch Deaton in the leg. Deaton stumbles from a combination of the missed lunge and the blow, and the Kanima uses that opportunity to slip out the front door.

            Melissa lets out a breath that she didn’t know she was holding, relieved that she doesn’t have to stare into the creature’s creepy yellow eyes anymore. Deaton doesn’t seem to share her sentiment, though: as soon as he rights himself, he’s moving towards the door, tossing a “Come on, we need to follow him!” over his shoulder.

            “Wait, we’re _following_ it?” Melissa asks, disbelieving. Yeah, she’d been all about getting Jackson to a safe place when it seemed like he was hurt, but he’s quite clearly fine now. Good riddance, frankly.

            Deaton stops rushing long enough to fix her with an unnerving stare. “We need to keep it from getting back to its master,” he says. “It will be much more difficult to battle Gerard Argent if he has Jackson on his side.”

            Shit, Melissa hadn’t even thought of where the thing would be _going_. And she definitely hadn’t thought of the fact that it would be going to the same place Scott was.

            “However,” Deaton continues, “we really only need Lydia to defeat the Kanima. You can go home, if you’re afraid.” As he’s saying this, Deaton begins to usher a still-shocked Lydia towards the door.

            Melissa follows him. “Hell no. I’m going with you.”

            Deaton glances back at her from where he’s opening the back door of his car for Lydia. “Alright then.”

            Melissa slides into the passenger seat, barely managing to get the door shut before Deaton’s starting the car and peeling out of the parking lot, ready to follow the Kanima.

***

            Of course, as Stiles realizes shortly after he’s gotten Allison to agree to help him, escaping is much easier said than done. Even if he were in the condition to run away, Allison says the building’s surrounded by hunters.

            “Maybe if we cut down Boyd and Erica, they can help us?” Stiles asks hopefully.

            Allison shakes her head. “They’ve all got wolfsbane bullets. We’ll all be dead in a second if we try to make a run for it.”

            Damn. “Maybe you could talk to them?” he suggests. “You know, tell them you’ve got this covered, and they can go take a smoke break or whatever?”

            Allison snorts, somehow still managing to be cute when making such an unladylike sound. “Yeah, right, like any of them’ll listen to me,” she says bitterly. “They’re under Gerard’s thumb. All of them.”

            “What about your dad?” Stiles asks. He’s not the biggest fan of Chris Argent, but at this point, he’s desperate for anything that can help.

            Allison looks thoughtful. “Maybe…” she trails off. “I mean, they have been under his command longer.”

            “How about you call him, and I’ll see about getting Erica and Boyd down?” Stiles says. Behind him, Erica makes a muffled noise of agreement through her gag.

            As Allison brings out her phone and begins to dial, Stiles drags himself over to where Erica and Boyd are.  

            He recalls seeing Gerard flick a switch on the console next to them to increase the electricity, so it stands to reason that it can also be turned off from there. He’s just about to flick the switch off when he hears footsteps on the stairs above him.

            “Shit,” he mutters, and backs away from the console, shooting the still-bound betas an apologetic look. Behind him, he hears Allison echo his curse and fumble with her bow, trying to look as though she’s still keeping an eye on Stiles.

            Gerard appears on the stairs, smirk twisting his weathered face. “It’s time,” he intones. Behind him are several hunters, armed with huge guns.

            Stiles rolls his eyes. Really, what is with this guy? He’s like every comic book supervillain, but without the cool powers.

            “Time for what?” Allison asks.

            “Among other things, time for you to stop being a player in this little drama,” Gerard says.

            Before Stiles can puzzle out what that means, one of Gerard’s henchmen steps forward and grabs Allison, twisting the bow out of her grip before bringing her hands together behind her back. She struggles, but they guy who’d grabbed her is enormous, and she doesn’t stand a chance.

            When she gives it up as a lost cause, Gerard steps forward and takes her face in his hand. It’s the same move he’d pulled on Erica earlier, but it’s somehow so much creepier with Allison – yeah, Stiles doesn’t agree with the ‘werewolves are scum’ sentiment, but he can appreciate that it was that prejudice that had caused him to be so cruel to Erica. The fact that he can do the same thing to a girl who’s not only human, but is also his _own goddamn granddaughter_ is profoundly disturbing.

            “I’m disappointed in you, Allison,” Gerard says, contemplatively. “Did you really think I wouldn’t find out you’d betrayed me?”

            “How could you do this?” Allison whispers, eyes locked on Gerard’s. “How could you _manipulate_ me like this?”

            “As Machiavelli said, ‘the ends justify the means’,” Gerard says, dropping Allison’s face. “You were too close to those creatures; you’re _still_ too close to those creatures. But don’t worry – it’s not too late for you.”

            “I’ll _never_ be on your side,” Allison spits, resuming her struggle.

            “You said that once before,” Gerard points out. “And look what happened.” He addresses the henchmen “Take her away, and make sure she can’t get out.”

            The man holding Allison nods and obeys, lifting her bodily off the ground in order to carry her away.

            When the sounds of her fighting and screaming have faded off into the distance, Gerard nods to the other henchman, who grabs Stiles in much the same way his companion had grabbed Allison. Stiles doesn’t even bother to fight – this guy’s just as big as the first, Stiles isn’t a fighter at the best of times, and right now is clearly not the best of times.

            As Stiles is dragged unceremoniously toward the stairs, the pain in his ribs so sharp it’s suffocating, he can’t help but hope that Scott doesn’t come for him.

            He has no idea what Gerard’s planning, but he’s absolutely sure it’s going to end badly.

***

            It takes a surprisingly short amount of time for Derek to stop running dead in his tracks. For a moment, Scott’s concerned that he’s lost the scent, but, when Derek looks back at the car, it becomes clear that they’ll need to continue on foot. 

            The Sheriff parks on the side of the road and the four of them pile out of the car, walking over to where Derek’s changed back into a human. “They have him around here,” Derek says, before turning to shoot Scott a glare. “I can’t believe you couldn’t figure that out.”

            Scott scowls. “If you would’ve _helped_ me when I first got turned…”

            “I tried. And who’s the one that fed the Argents information at the first opportunity?” Derek says, and Scott gives an internal groan. He had _really_ hoped that the whole common cause thing would prevent that from coming up.

            “He was threatening my _mom_ ,” Scott argues. “I couldn’t just -”

            “Children,” Peter interrupts. “Not the time for a lover’s spat, really.”

            Derek huffs, but turns back towards the forest. “It’s this way,” he says shortly, and takes off, long strides carrying him quickly over the ground.

            As Scott follows, struggling slightly to keep up with Derek’s pace, he begins to worry about what’s ahead for the first time. Earlier in the night, he’d been so concerned with finding out where Stiles was that he hadn’t given much thought to what they would do once they found him. Sure, they had three werewolves and a sheriff on their side, but there was no telling how many hunters Gerard might have at his disposal. Without even considering the possibility that Jackson could somehow heal himself and rejoin his master, they were pretty screwed. Which reminded him…

            “Has anyone heard any more news about Jackson?”

            “Long story short, he’s basically a Pokémon,” says Peter.

            “A…Pokémon?” Scott replies, not following in the slightest.

            Before Peter can reply, an uncomfortably familiar screech reaches Scott’s ear. “ _Fuck_ ,” he whispers.

            “Ah, there he is now,” says Peter serenely.

            Scott _really_ wants to glare at Peter, because that is so not the appropriate response to the resurgence of a giant lizard monster, but then Jackson’s bursting out of the treeline in front of him, and he doesn’t think he’s capable of moving anymore.

            It’s still obviously the Kanima, what comes out of the trees, but it’s different from how it had looked before, and every single difference is terrifying.

            As it comes out of the trees, Scott catalogues the changes. The most obvious one is the wings, giant and black and somehow both leathery and scaly at the same time, that have grown out of its shoulder blades. It’s holding the wings slightly aloft as it moves, as though they’re helping it balance. That doesn’t seem like a ridiculous conclusion, given that it’s still trying to move in that hunched, slinky way it favors, even though it’s grown, impossibly, bigger, easily eight feet without factoring in the tail. Speaking of the tail… are those spikes jutting out of the sides?

            It whips its tail forward, snarling to show off those needle-like teeth, and yep, they’re definitely spikes. Scott doesn’t understand why the thing _needs_ another goddamn weapon: it’s already proven itself to be indestructible, and it’s not like it was short on methods of murder before.

            Scott feels the change coming over him almost without his conscious approval. At this point, it’s like a knee-jerk reaction to shift when faced with danger. Somehow, he knows without looking that behind him, Derek and Isaac are doing the same.

            Jackson snarls again, unfurling the wings to their full span. They’re even more impressive like this, the light of the half-moon playing over them in ripples. As Scott watches, claws unsheathed, ready to defend himself, he sees a harsher, yellow light hit Jackson’s wings.

            Headlights.

            Scott doesn’t know who the fuck is driving this far into the forest, but he hopes like hell it’s someone already in the know about all this supernatural bullshit, because this situation is gonna be pretty hard to explain away.

            Luckily, the voice he hears call out his name is familiar: Dr. Deaton. Scott feels himself relax slightly despite the fact that Jackson’s still tensed like he’s about to spring – surely, the vet will know what to do.

            Or not, it seems, because it’s Peter who speaks next. “Lydia!” he exclaims. Scott has to turn around at that, despite his reluctance to turn his back on Jackson, because he can’t think of a single reason that Dr. Deaton and Lydia Martin would roll up on a supernatural stand-off in the woods together.

            Sure enough, Lydia’s there, looking pale but composed, but Scott’s really more concerned about the second woman at the moment.

            “Scott?” his mom says, looking just as stunned as the first time she’d seen him shift. Scott wants to change back, to reassure her, because he hates seeing that expression on her face, but it’s like he physically can’t, with Jackson still behind him.

            Peter’s been talking throughout this little exchange, and Scott tunes back in just as he says “…your love could _save_ him.”

            Scott snorts, because he’s not quite sure when this turned into a Disney movie, a literal Beauty and the Beast, but he’s fairly sure life doesn’t actually work like that. Besides, he’s always been under the impression that Jackson and Lydia’s relationship was based more on sex and status than on any kind of deeper feeling. Scott’s not even sure Jackson’s _capable_ of ‘deeper feeling’.

            Before he can speak up to tell Peter that he’s pretty sure that the whole coming back from the dead thing had scrambled his brain, Jackson springs forward, sinking his claws directly into the muscle atop Scott’s shoulder.

            Scott goes down with a yell, trying in vain to fight off the creature. He’d managed to throw it around a few times before, but that was before it leveled up, or whatever, and… oh. He finally gets that Pokémon joke.

            Anyway, not the point. The creature’s claws rip through the skin of his shoulder, tearing it to ribbons. Its back legs are at the small of his back, heavy, pinning him down in the dirt. He bucks, once, twice, three times, trying to throw it off, before it’s suddenly gone, and he can breathe again.

            Scott looks up, chest heaving, to see Derek standing over him, transformed back into his full wolf form. His mouth is half-open in a snarl, and his eyes are fixed on Jackson, who he’s thrown into a tree.

            Jackson snarls right back at him, then takes off in the opposite direction, leaving a lizard-shaped indentation in the tree.

            “Goddamn it, Derek!” Peter barks, rushing forward. “Don’t let him get away!”

            It’s too late, though – Jackson’s always been fast, but now he’s _winged_ , which reduces their odds of tracking him to near zero.

            Peter sighs the sigh of the truly exasperated, fixing the Derek-wolf with a piercing stare. “Nice going,” he says. “Now we’ll never catch up with him before he gets back to Gerard, which means we’re all going to be fucking slaughtered.”

            Melissa cuts in. “Back off. He would’ve killed Scott if Derek hadn’t stepped in.” Satisfied with this retort, she makes her way over to where Scott is lying on the ground. The skin of his back is healing itself so fast that it’s visible, but she still wants to give him a check-over. Werewolf with magical healing powers or not, he’s still her son, and she can’t help the twinge of worry she feels.

            “Wouldn’t be _that_ big of a loss,” Peter mutters, but everyone ignores him.

            Derek shifts back into human form, then, and goes over to where Melissa’s hovering anxiously over her son. “We should hurry,” he says, making an aborted movement like he wants to put a hand on her shoulder. “He’ll be fine, Mrs. McCall.”

            “How many times do I have to tell you people? It’s _Melissa_ , for Chrissake.” She gets up, though, reaching out a hand to help Scott to his feet. “Thank you for saving him,” she says when Scott’s standing on his own again.

            Derek gives a stiff nod and inclines his head in the direction that Stiles’s scent is still coming from. “This way,” he says. “Quickly.”

            Scott follows behind Derek, his mother’s arm around his shoulders. On Melissa’s other side, Lydia comes up, and Scott feels guilty for not sparing her a thought until now. “You alright, Lydia?” he asks.

            “I should be asking _you_ that,” she says, eyeing the blood that’s soaking what remains of his shirt. Her voice is a little shaky, but her face is focused and determined. Scott’s a little surprised that she’s adjusting to this whole supernatural thing so easily, but he supposes he shouldn’t be – it must be a relief, finding out what’s actually going on after months of living in the dark.

            “I’m fine,” Scott assures her, flashing a quick smile. “It’s Stiles and Jackson we need to be worried about.”

            Lydia takes a deep breath at the reminder of her ex. “Do you think Peter’s telling the truth?” she asks hesitantly. “Do you think I’ll be able to save him?”

            “I think Peter shouldn’t really be trusted,” Scott says carefully, causing Peter, who’s walking behind him, to call “I heard that!”. “But we’ve got to try anyway”.

            Lydia nods. “Of course.”

            They fall silent after that, each of them lost in their own thoughts.

***

            Stiles is bored as hell.

            It’s not exactly a normal thing to feel when you’re being held in a creepy-ass abandoned warehouse by your best friend’s ex-girlfriend’s crazed grandfather, but then, Stiles has always prided himself on being original.

            Seriously, though. They’ve just been sitting here for like a half an hour, completely alone, due to the fact that Gerard had dismissed his henchmen right after they’d gotten here. Well, Gerard’s been sitting: Stiles had full-on collapsed onto the floor not long after they’d gotten to the warehouse, his entire left side on fire. He’s just waiting for the damn broken rib to puncture a lung or something and kill him. At least he wouldn’t have to hang out with the World’s Dullest Psychopath anymore.

            Anyway, the whole searing pain situation means that Stiles can’t run away, even if Gerard didn’t have a gun trained on him. He really wishes that he and Allison hadn’t gotten caught – even if she hadn’t come to see reason, her bow ‘n arrow is a hell of a lot less intimidating than the gun.

            Stiles shifts over onto his back, wincing when even that little movement jars his rib. “So, what exactly are we doing here?” he asks, his boredom overcoming the more rational part of his brain, which is screaming at him to avoid annoying the man who can kill him. “You didn’t mention this when you were detailing your evil plan earlier.”

            Luckily, Gerard doesn’t seem inclined to kill Stiles just yet. “We’re waiting for your werewolf friends to show up,” he says “and then I’ll kill them. And probably you, for good measure.”

            Stiles can’t hold back a snort. “Even with wolfsbane bullets, there are way more of them than there are of you,” he says, though, privately, he’s not certain that’s true – he’s pretty much expecting just Scott to show up.

            Gerard gives a smirk, which Stiles can only really see out of the corner of his eye, due to his awkward position. “Not all the players are here yet, Stilinski,” he says cryptically.

            Stiles rolls his eyes at the melodrama, but falls silent. For the next few moments, as Gerard stares fixedly at the door of the warehouse, he contemplates what Gerard could have possibly meant. He has a sinking feeling he knows.

            His suspicions are confirmed when the door creaks open to reveal the Kanima. There’s something strange about it, though, which Stiles can’t really see until it steps closer to them, inside the pool of light given by the bare bulb directly over Stiles’s head.

            “Jesus _fucking_ Christ,” is Stiles’s first reaction when he gets an eyeful of the thing. “What the hell happened to him?”

            The Kanima comes to rest near Gerard’s feet, and he reaches out to stroke over its scaly head like it’s some kind of horrific, evil cat. Its wings – Christ, _wings_ – flutter slightly as if in pleasure, and it releases a low rumble, almost like a purr.

            “Meet my new and improved killing machine, Stilinski,” Gerard says. “Those glorified Labrador Retrievers won’t stand a chance against him.”

            Stiles can’t take his eyes off of the Lovecraftian abomination in front of him. He doesn’t doubt what Gerard says – the Kamina now looks like it could take out four werewolves with a single blow. The only way it could possibly get more terrifying is if it started spitting poison or growing knives out of its skin. Actually, Stiles wouldn’t put it past the thing: if it can upgrade itself once, it can surely do it again.

            Stiles manages a weak little wiggle away from Jackson. He’s reasonably certain that Gerard won’t kill him until the others get here, because Gerard’s just the kind of sadistic bastard that would want to kill someone in front of all their friends and family, but he feels the need to move away on principle.

            Jackson doesn’t react at all to Stiles’s motion, merely curling a little tighter around Gerard’s legs and turning its yellow eyes to the door.

            They don’t have to wait long, this time, before they hear the sounds of footsteps outside the warehouse. Stiles is momentarily relieved, because there are clearly many people out there, which means that there’s a better chance that someone will actually survive the Kanima attack long enough to save him. That’s before he hears the voices, though.

            “They’re keeping him _here_?”

            Oh God.

            Stiles feels like he should’ve expected this, should’ve expected that he couldn’t just disappear from a lacrosse game without his dad looking for him, but he doesn’t understand how his dad could’ve _found_ him. It must mean that one of the werewolves thought to bring him along.

            If his dad gets hurt, he’ll never forgive any of them.

            He thinks that it can’t get worse than this, waiting for his dad to walk into the trap Gerard had set, right into the Kanima’s waiting claws, but then, another voice answers. “Do you think Jackson’s in there, too?”

            Stiles physically recoils when he hears Lydia speak. It’s not from the content of her words – despite the ache it creates deep in his stomach, he’s never really been able to begrudge her for her feelings for Jackson – but rather the fact that she’s here, in danger, and it’s likely that the boy she cares about so much will be the one to hurt or even kill her.

            From beside Stiles, Gerard lets out a soft chuckle. “This is even better than I expected,” he says.

            Stiles thinks he’s going to be sick. “You’re a monster,” he says quietly. “You’re always talking about how the werewolves need to be put down, but the only rabid dog in this situation is you. You killed Matt, you threatened your own granddaughter, and now you’re happy that two innocent people are going to walk into your trap? Guess I should’ve expected it, though, after meeting that vicious, evil bitch you called a daughter.” Stiles knows that he’s dug himself in deep now, knows that there’s no way Gerard will let him live, but he can’t bring himself to care.

            He only hopes Gerard does it now, so he doesn’t have to watch his father and Lydia die. As the old man turns his head, more slowly and dramatically than he’s ever seen someone do in real life before, cold fury written over every line of his face, Stiles prepares himself to be ripped limb from limb by an angry lizard. He can only hope that Gerard won’t make Jackson torture him too much.

            Before Gerard can give the command, though, the door of the warehouse opens with a loud clang, and a wolfed-out Scott comes bounding over the threshold.

***

            As soon as the warehouse comes into view, Scott knows that they’re in trouble. It’s not just the location that convinces him of this – he’d expected nothing less from Gerard, really – but the fact that he can hear the heartbeats of the people inside. One is going jackhammer-fast, presumably working extra hard to pump blood throughout its owner’s body, getting oxygen to his brain to help him think of a way out of this mess – Stiles. Another is beating much slower, completely calm in a hostage situation, but with a strange sound, as though it’s finding it difficult to do its job – Gerard. And a third, slower still, from a creature that needs to rely on outside sources to keep its blood moving – Jackson.

            Scott’s immediate reaction after he catalogues these facts is to look at Derek, who, judging by the look on his face, has come to the same conclusions.

            Really, if he didn’t know Gerard’s conniving ways so well, Scott would almost think they were at an advantage here – three werewolves, one former alpha with encyclopedic knowledge of werewolf lore, a badass vet, the sheriff of Beacon Hills, an ER nurse, and a teen who’s immune to werewolf bites against an old man and an oversized lizard seem like good odds. However, Scott _does_ know Gerard, and he knows that he must have a trick or two up his sleeve – he’d never purposely put himself in a dangerous hostage situation with minimal back-up.

            As Scott waits for Derek to make a plan, he’s just glad that he can sense no trace of Allison around the warehouse. True, that doesn’t necessarily mean that she’s come to her senses, but at least he won’t have to risk seeing her get hurt, or seeing her hurt others.

            Before Derek can say anything, Sheriff Stilinski asks the question that must be in the front of every human’s mind: “They’re keeping him _here_?” The Sheriff had gotten his gun out without Scott noticing, and he’s using it to gesture to the warehouse.

            No one answers his question, because it’s fairly obvious that they are, in fact, keeping him here. Instead, Lydia says “Do you think Jackson’s in there, too?”

            Scott holds back a wince that’s partly the result of Lydia’s voice, overly loud with nerves, just as the Sheriff’s had been, and partly the result of annoyance at Lydia’s one-track mind. Sure, he knows that saving Jackson is important, but he can’t help but think that they have more pressing matters to worry about, like making sure Lydia’s scaly ex-boyfriend doesn’t kill anybody.

            This train of thought is making him feel vaguely guilty, because he’s certain that this is how Stiles must have felt when he couldn’t stop talking about Allison[CJ5] , and he kinda gets why his best friend had been so bitchy, now that he’s experienced something similar for himself.

            From inside the warehouse, Scott can hear Gerard say, “This is even better than I expected,” and his blood starts to boil. He feels the shift starting to take over without permission, and he takes a moment to acknowledge that he really does need to work on his control, before he gives in completely to his fury.

            He steps forward with a vague plan to burst in the room and pummel Gerard until he stops psychologically torturing Scott’s best friend, but is brought up short when Stiles speaks, so quietly that even his superior ears can barely pick it up.

            Stiles has never been one to hold back punches, but Scott’s never thought him stupid enough to deliberately provoke someone holding him captive. As Stiles details his full opinion of Gerard, ending with an insult to Kate, Scott catches first Derek’s eye, then Isaac’s.

            As soon as Stiles stops talking, Scott’s sprinting towards the door, consequences be damned. He doesn’t bother opening the door like a human, instead choosing to throw it open so hard that he thinks he’s caused a crack in the solid metal. He comes to a stop in the middle of the room, half-crouched and his teeth bared in a warning snarl, a few feet in front of where Gerard is sitting, a king on his throne, with his loyal subject at his right hand and his victim lying bruised and broken on the floor.

            Scott’s vaguely aware that Isaac has followed him the whole way, not pausing to consider the way Derek had, but he doesn’t have time to process what that could possibly mean before the others are spilling in behind them.

            There’s silence for a moment, until, predictably enough, Stiles breaks it. “Nice entrance, there. Eight out of ten.” His voice sounds weaker than normal, though, and this fact, combined with the dark bruises that are blossoming across Stiles’s face, immediately puts Scott on his guard. “What did you _do_ to him?” he asks Gerard, voice little more than a growl.

            “Oh, nothing permanent,” Gerard says airily.

            Scott’s about to respond, to rip the motherfucker limb from limb for hurting his best friend, when the Sheriff steps forward, gun trained on Gerard.

            “Dad, _no_ ,” Stiles gasps, but the Sheriff ignores him. “Mr. Argent, things will end a lot better for you if you agree to release my son and come with me now.” He’s using his no-nonsense voice, but somehow Scott thinks that it won’t have as much of an effect on Gerard as it does on him and Stiles.

            He’s right. Almost more quickly than he can see, Jackson moves, a long sinuous curve, and tackles the Sheriff. His gun goes flying, skittering off across the floor, and comes to rest about a foot from Stiles.

            Over Stiles’s panicked yell, Gerard says, “My problem isn’t with you, Sheriff Stilinski. However, I will not hesitate to have Jackson kill you if you insist on waving that gun around.”

            Sheriff Stilinski is trying valiantly to struggle, but without werewolf strength, he doesn’t stand half a chance. Jackson just sits on his chest, looking as smug as a lizard creature can, not even fazed by the Sheriff’s squirming. However, it does seem to get sick of it after a few seconds, because it reaches out to draw a claw across the back of his neck, paralyzing him.

            “What do you want from us, Gerard?” Derek asks, stepping forward. He’s not wolfed out like Scott and Isaac are, but there’s something of a snarl around his mouth.

            “Cutting right to the chase, aren’t we, Derek?” Gerard asks. “I will too: I want the bite.”

            That is literally the last thing Scott had ever expected to come out of Gerard’s mouth. The man’s hatred of werewolves has been a constant facet of his personality since the day Scott had met him. What could possibly prompt Gerard to want to become one of the creatures he had dedicated his whole life to killing?

            It’s Isaac who figures it out first. “You’re sick,” he says, and Scott almost misunderstands what he’s saying, because the alternate definition of the work ‘sick’ also applies in this scenario. But then he gets a whiff of Gerard’s scent, a sweet, sticky thing that vaguely reminds him of how the vet’s office sometimes smells, and he gets it.

            “Cancer,” Gerard says, a sour look on his face. “It’ll kill me within two years, unless I…intervene.”

            The next few events happen very quickly. Jackson leaps off of the Sheriff, using its wings as leverage, and makes its way over to Derek, who wolfs out. It has to walk past Deaton and Scott’s mom to get there, and it knocks them over like they’re a pair of rag dolls, one with a forearm and the other with its tail. Derek doesn’t wait until Jackson gets to him to attack, jumping on it and sinking his teeth into its arm. Isaac quickly follows Derek’s example.

            Scott’s torn, for a few tense seconds. A large part of him wants to help Derek and Isaac, but he’s pretty sure they’re fighting a losing battle there. Another part of him wants to go to his mom and see if she’s alright, but that can’t be a priority right now. Instead, he decides to go after Gerard, hoping like hell that if he manages to kill him, Jackson will stop attacking. Ordinarily, Scott would balk at the thought of killing anyone, but he doesn’t see any other choice here. Gerard’s clearly not going to stop trying to get what he wants while he still has breath in his body, and Scott can’t think of anything worse than Gerard getting what he wants.

            Scott charges towards where Gerard is sitting, neatly ducking out of the way of his gunshot blast. Out of the corner of his eye, he can see Stiles inching towards the Sheriff’s falling gun.

            When Scott’s about a foot or so from Gerard, though, he feels as though he’s run into a brick wall. He staggers backwards, shaking his head to try and clear it, and looks up into Gerard’s face.

            Gerard hadn’t moved while Scott had been coming towards him, and it soon becomes obvious why, when he looks deliberately toward the ceiling.

            Scott follows his gaze, and there, hidden above the rafters, is a faint grey circle. Mountain Ash. It must have been mixed with water or something, in order to make it stick, but it’s clearly just as effective on the ceiling as on the floor. Scott can’t cross the line, and that means he can’t hurt Gerard at all.

            Scott barely has time to process this new information before he hears a gun discharge again and feels, for the second time in as many weeks, a shooting pain in his lower stomach. He’s thrown back by the force of the bullet, skidding slightly across the ground before he comes to rest a few feet away, totally winded and in too much pain to move. From where he’s landed, he’s got a pretty good vantage point to see what’s going on in the rest of the warehouse.

            Sheriff Stilinski, his mother, and Deaton are all lying where they had been dropped, though Scott’s not sure if the latter two are paralyzed or just knocked out. Lydia’s a few feet away from everything, clutching at something near her neckline and looking terrified. Peter’s lurking in the shadows a few feet behind her. His mouth is moving, but Scott can’t make out what he’s saying, the din of the fight and the roaring in his own ears loud enough to cancel out his hearing advantage. Stiles has stopped moving as well, although Scott thinks it’s because Gerard is no longer distracted and not due to any new injury.

            In the middle of the room, the Battle Royale between Derek, Isaac, and Jackson is still going on. Scott’s impressed that the two werewolves have lasted as long as they have, considering the amount of blood he can see. He wonders vaguely why Jackson doesn’t just paralyze them, but one look at Gerard’s smiling face tells him the likely answer: that Gerard wants to see them in as much pain as possible.

            As Scott watches, Jackson finally seems to grow tired of the fight, and he picks up Isaac with both arms, tossing him easily across the room. He hits the wall headfirst with a loud crack, and Scott feels a spike of worry – head wounds are tricky, even with werewolf healing.

            Scott doesn’t turn his head back in the direction of the fight until he hears Derek give an inhuman scream, too busy peering worriedly at Isaac. When he does turn back, he immediately wishes he hadn’t, because Jackson has stuck his claws into Derek’s stomach and is holding him a few feet off the ground. As Jackson turns around and begins to bring his captive towards Gerard, a small trickle of blood begins to drip from the corner of Derek’s mouth, and his head lolls back as though he no longer has the strength to hold it up.

            Jackson comes to a halt right before the boundary that the Mountain Ash creates, and waits there patiently while Gerard rolls up his left sleeve and sticks his forearm out over the line.

            “Have you figured out my plan yet?” Gerard asks softly, as Jackson forces Derek’s mouth open. “As soon as I become a werewolf, I’m going to kill you and become the Alpha. Then, I’ll kill everyone else in this warehouse – McCall, Lahey, Stilinski, Deaton; hell, I’ll probably even kill Miss Martin, the Sheriff, and the lovely Mrs. McCall, just for good measure. Then, with Jackson by my side, I’ll be unstoppable.” Gerard’s crazed grin grows with every word he says. “Doesn’t that sound good?” he doesn’t wait for Derek’s answer, merely puts his arm between Derek’s open jaws. “This is for Kate,” he whispers, and then there’s a gunshot.

            Scott’s first thought is that Stiles must have gotten to the Sheriff’s gun, but when he looks over, the gun is still lying a few feet away from Stiles. Scott looks around, as much as he can, trying to figure out if anyone else in the warehouse could possibly have been armed.

            At the door of the warehouse, there’s a movement, and then Chris Argent steps out into the light, gun still raised. He doesn’t seem to notice the carnage in the room around him, keeping his eyes locked on his father.

            The bullet had hit Gerard squarely in the forehead, killing him instantly, in the second before Derek’s jaws could snap down on his arm.

            Scott’s incredibly relieved, of course, but he can’t help but feel that it isn’t over yet. Jackson’s still holding Derek, looking around the room and blinking, as though he’s just woken up from a vivid dream. Suddenly, he lets Derek go and drops to all fours, crawling to where Stiles is lying on the floor.

            Chris gets a shot off at it, but its new scales are so tough that the bullet merely ricochets off, disappearing into the gloom of the warehouse.

            Scott struggles to turn over, still in pain but not willing to let his best friend die. When he finally gets to his hands and knees, though, he’s faced with a strange sight: the Kanima is sitting on its haunches next to Stiles, one scaly hand outstretched, as though it’s waiting for something.

            “Uhhhh…” Stiles says, looking helplessly at the creature. “Hey, dude, what’s up?” He brings his hand up as well, and Scott sees what he’s about to do a split second before he does it, too late to do anything about it.

            Stiles presses his palm to the Kanima’s, and the creature gives a low, satisfied-sounding hiss.

            From where Jackson had deposited him, Derek grits out, “Stiles, you idiot.”

            “What?” Stiles protests. “I think we just had a bonding moment, here. Maybe it’s a good thing!”

            “You just _became its master_ ,” Derek replies. His tone implies that he is both in a great deal of pain and very done with Stiles’s shit.

            “Oh, fuck,” Stiles says faintly, eyes fixed on Jackson’s.

            From across the room, Lydia speaks up. “Don’t worry, Peter told me how to fix him.”

            As she comes rushing over, Scott asks, “Why didn’t you do it _before_ , when he was trying to kill us all?”

            Lydia doesn’t give him a response, merely goes over to crouch next to Jackson and Stiles. Scott, who’s extremely not interested in listening to Lydia profess her undying love for Jackson, especially because Stiles is probably going to whine about it to him for the next couple years, finally manages to get to his feet.

            Clutching at his stomach, Scott makes his way over to where Derek is lying, since he’s closest. He’s not too worried, given that Derek had been talking just a little while ago, but he still wants to check to make sure everything’s alright.

            Derek seems to anticipate Scott’s question. “I’m fine,” he says. “It’ll heal up in a few minutes. What about you, wasn’t that bullet wolfsbane?”

            Scott hadn’t thought about that possibility. It’s pretty clear now that it’s not, because Scott had seen Derek under the influence of a wolfsbane bullet, and that was just in the arm: he’s pretty sure that a shot to the stomach would have killed him already. “I guess not,” he says. “He must’ve thought he wouldn’t need the extra protection, with Erica and Boyd gone and Jackson on his side.”

            “I guess,” Derek says. He tries to sit up, but winces and falls backwards. “Check on Isaac for me, will you?”

            Scott nods, but goes over to check on the humans first. Isaac’s either healing or dead, and there’s nothing Scott can really do in either case, so it’s just practical.

            Sheriff Stilinski’s eyes are darting around rapidly, and he gives an abrupt “I’m fine,” before Scott even reaches him. “Is Stiles ok?” he asks, frantic, and Scott realizes that he hadn’t been lucky enough to fall so that he could see the rest of the warehouse.

            “He’s fine,” Scott says quickly. “Not a scratch on him. Uh, not a scratch that wasn’t here when we came in, I mean.”

            The Sheriff visibly relaxes. “Good,” he says. “How long is this paralysis thing gonna last, anyway?”

            Scott shrugs. “I dunno. Depends, really.”

            “On what?”

            Scott shrugs again, and the Sheriff rolls his eyes. Scott takes that as permission to go over to where his mother and Dr. Deaton are lying.

            His mom’s eyes are open and focused, thank God, but it appears that Dr. Deaton’s been knocked out. Scott quickly kneels beside him and puts a hand on his neck, searching for a pulse the way the Doctor himself had taught him. It’s there, but that’s all that Scott knows about people medicine. He casts a slightly panicked look at his mom, who rolls her eyes.

            “There’s not much else we can do for him here,” she says. “It was a short fall, so he should be fine, but we really should get an ambulance here, stat.”

            Scott agrees, but he doesn’t know how to go about this – he’s pretty sure that calling 911 would get some kind of official personnel here, which would not be a good idea, considering the dead body and giant lizard that still occupy the warehouse.

            “I’ve got a car outside. I can load up the people in need of medical attention and get them to the hospital,” a voice offers, and Chris Argent comes to kneel beside Scott, placing a hand on his shoulder. It’s a little jarring, with the way Chris has treated him in the past, but Scott guesses they’re on the same side now, at least for the time being. “But first, do you know where Allison is?”

            Scott blinks, surprised that she’s not with her father. “I haven’t seen her. Maybe Stiles knows? He’s the one who was with Gerard the whole time.”

            Chris nods and goes over to where Stiles, Lydia, and Jackson are. Scott notices that Jackson is still in lizard form. He’s been hearing Lydia speaking in increasingly agitated tones for the past few minutes, but he’s been so focused on making sure everyone was ok that he hadn’t been paying attention. Now, he hears her ask “Why won’t it work?” in a broken whisper. He’s about to snort to himself, because he’d known that trusting Peter wasn’t a good plan, but then it hits him that Peter’s no longer in the warehouse.

            He whips his head around, wildly searching the corners for any sign of the former alpha. He remembers seeing him during the earlier fight, but he hadn’t seen Peter sneak out. He’s got a bad feeling about this.

            “Does anyone know where Peter is?” Scott asks, raising his voice so that everyone who’s still conscious can hear him.

            Stiles looks up from where he’s conversing with Chris. “Peter who?” he asks, eyebrows furrowing.

            “Peter _Hale_?” Scott replies, confused and much more worried about Stiles’s condition than he had been.

            Stiles gives him a strange look. “Um. Pretty sure he’s dead, buddy. Molotov cocktails and ‘I’m the alpha now, rawr’, remember?”

            Derek’s finally gotten to his feet. “Peter’s not here?” he asks, completely ignoring Stiles.

            “I haven’t seen him since you were fighting Jackson,” Scott says, choosing to follow Derek’s example. “He was talking to Lydia.”

            As Derek turns to Lydia and asks “What did he say to you?” Scott goes over to where Isaac’s still lying. He’s pretty sure he knows how the conversation with Derek and Lydia is going to go: Lydia’s going to say that Peter was telling her how to save Jackson, and then they’re both going to come to the conclusion that he’s double-crossed them, somehow. Scott’s not really interested in that right now, though.

            He drops down next to where Isaac is lying, automatically reaching out to take his pulse as well. He’s still breathing, and the thrum of his blood under his skin is strong, but Scott can’t help but feel that something’s wrong. His own pain has faded, although he’s fairly sure he’s going to have to make someone dig out the damn bullet, and Derek is now up and walking around like Jackson had never gored him. By all indications, Isaac really should have woken up by now.

            Scott hesitates a second, before reaching over and scooping Isaac into his arms. It won’t do him any good to go to the hospital, but he definitely needs to get out of this warehouse. They all do.

            As he walks past where the Sheriff is still lying, he hears his name. He turns around to meet the Sheriff’s eyes.

            “Scott, take my keys,” he says. “Not everyone’s going to fit in Mr. Argent’s car.”

            Scott nods and lays Isaac down for a moment, careful not to let his head hit the ground.

            “They’re in my left front pocket,” the Sheriff says.

            Scott grits his teeth and goes for it. It’s as supremely awkward as he would’ve expected, rummaging around in the jeans pocket of a man he considers a surrogate father, but it’s what has to be done. He manages to extract the keys without too much difficulty, and he picks Isaac back up again.

            “Mr. Argent,” he calls. “I’ll take my mom, the Sheriff, Lydia, and Isaac in-”

            “Oh hell no,” Scott’s mom interrupts. “I’m going to the hospital, they’re going to need me.”

            “You’re paralyzed, mom,” Scott says.

            “Well, then we’ll just have to hide me ‘till I’m not paralyzed, then.” Scott’s very familiar with the look on his mother’s face, the one that says that any argument will be met with swift and sure punishment. He supposes it can’t hurt, to have an on-duty nurse who knows what’s going on.

            “Alright,” he agrees, then turns back to Chris. “I’ll take the Sheriff, Lydia, and Isaac in the Sheriff’s car. Can you get Stiles and Dr. Deaton to the hospital?”

            Chris hesitates for an instant, and Derek cuts in before he can reply. “If you’ll trust me with your car, I can take them,” he offers. “I know you probably want to find Allison.”

            Chris looks at Derek warily, but gives a slow nod. “I’ll make sure to take care of the body,” he gives a dismissive nod towards Gerard’s hunched-up corpse, “and let Boyd and Erica free.”

            “Thank you,” Derek says, barely perceptible relief in his voice. The two men stare at each other for a split second more, with something like mutual respect, before Chris pulls a set of keys out of his pocket and hands them to Derek.

            The moment is broken, then, and Scott asks the question that’s been on his mind for the past few minutes. “What about Jackson? Is he just gonna stay like that forever?”

            The Kanima hasn’t left Stiles’s side since the whole ‘hands touching hands’ thing had happened, just choosing to sit there like some horrible mockery of a dog at its master’s feet.

            “You control him now,” Derek says to Stiles. “Tell him to change back.”

            Stiles gives Derek an incredulous look, which is a feat, considering how pale and drawn his face is. Derek just stares back, stoic, until Stiles heaves a loud sigh and turns to Jackson. “Um, hey buddy. How about you go back to being your normal douchebag self, huh? Presto changeo, or whatever.”

            “Stiles,” the Sheriff scolds, but apparently something in his words had gotten through to Jackson, because his scales are already starting to fade back to smooth human skin, his eyes morphing back to normal.

            Scott lets out a breath of relief. There are still a lot of things they have to worry about – Peter’s whereabouts and motive for disappearing, explaining away Gerard’s disappearance, and getting all of them healthy again, to name a few – but he feels like something’s shifted and, for the first time in months, he feels that things are looking up.

 

 

 


End file.
